Unforeseen
by The Illegible
Summary: An elf is thrown to the mercy of fate from a young age, held helpless in Ferelden's Circle for years after. When the nation suddenly turns to the Warden for protection he finds himself holding countless lives in his hands. Uncertain, inexperienced, and afraid, he must nonetheless appear confident in his decisions to combat the Blight or risk losing everything.
1. Chapter 1

As a child Alim Surana is sharp-featured, dark-eyed, crowned by unruly black hair that won't get cut clean until years later. Otherwise fair and light-boned, he gets sick more often than his mother likes. Something he inherited from his father, who he has never met, who slipped away before he entered this world. Mother says that's where his looks come from too, and Alim tries to imagine him in the differences between their features. Her nose tilts up a little more, her mouth is fuller, her jaw is softer. Their brows form the same expressions.

He doesn't know what to make of that.

Alim spends more time brewing herbs than fighting. Mother worried for a long time that he would break something, but eventually surprised him with a practice sword that was short and blunt and felt like an extension of his arm more than a tool. He threw his arms around her and for a long time couldn't even find words to say thank you. She laughed, and kissed him on the cheek, and told him not to beat the other children too badly or they wouldn't invite him again.

He finds himself memorizing more stories about human heroes than history they struggle to retell here at the alienage. Humans, for their part, watch him like he's a mabari that could prove rabid at any time.

Or worse, pick their pockets.

He hears the word _shemlen_ before knife-ear, in the apothecary from one of mother's customers. When he asks she tells him it's Dalish and it's rude and not to say it again. Some humans seem to appreciate her efforts when they visit from more respected districts in search of potions.

Some, however, do not.

Knife-ear seems more bizarre than insulting at first, coming from a person whose ears are small and curled like snail shells. But he sees the way mother's face falls, and the frustrated grimace her customer flashes before walking out, and he knows it isn't that simple.

"We're like sharks to them, _da'len_. Mindless, greedy, ruthless. To chop us into pieces and eat us alive is only beating us at our own game in their heads."

The first sign of magic comes when he is seven years old, sobbing while mother wipes away blood as it rolls down his leg, administering elfroot to the gash where he'd tumbled to his knees. She bites her lip, intent on removing every trace of dirt and dust to avoid infection.

Slowly, haltingly, the wound seals itself over.

Mother's hands freeze, hover in place for a long time. Carefully move across the newly knitted skin. Pull back.

"Be more careful," is all she has to say.

The second sign he is nine, and it's in public. Fighting breaks out in the streets, city guards against drunks. This time has blood too, and screams more like animal-screeching, and he finds himself trapped against a wall wondering if someone will die if he will die as the dagger arcs into a space beneath breastplate and _rips_.

There are animals screeching and they grow they saw away the space behind his eyes until he feels himself split open louder darker wetter hotter on his hands and knees trying to empty himself people cry out their disorientation fleeing visions they cannot name.

Someone gets his mother. She holds him, murmuring a lullaby in his ear. When the templars come his bags are packed and he is barely conscious, lying in bed. They keep their voices down.

His mother kisses him on the forehead. " _Dareth shiral_ ," she whispers, "little love." Her eyes are red and swollen. He can't remember when they got that way.

He's too tired to struggle against the man who takes him in his arms, who carries him away from home, away from the alienage, away from Denerim. His ears are blunt as spoons, but he's more gentle than he might have been.

Alim doesn't know if that makes it better or worse.


	2. Chapter 2

Fereldan's Circle is Kinloch Hold, and it isn't as bad as most. Who decided this and how is never entirely clear, but there seems to be some consensus among its residents.

His first years are hard. There is no wind, no sky, no dirt. Ceilings tower, dust collects on unpopular books, the only animals to be found are cats and rats. He finds himself surrounded by humans-children, mages, templars. The first time he sees another elf it is an instructor named Lasa, and Alim finds himself clinging to her skirts in tears. His lips form a string of broken Dalish sentences unable to articulate his relief, struggling to explain how alone he's felt surrounded by chantry prayers and enchanted walls, no _vhenadahl_ to rest beneath, no gods but the Maker while they bless their foreign food and foreign clothes and he sees in the blankness of her face that she understands nothing.

A substitute is sent for. Lasa steps with Alim into the hallway while students murmur among themselves. She kneels, meets his eye.

"I'm sorry," says Lasa. "It's been a long time. Forgetting is so easy."

They do this, she tells him, to help them blend in. To encourage unity. There are other elves in other classes but they are a minority here. It isn't so bad once you're used to it. The Circle is a shock for everyone. It's better to let go.

He doesn't talk much after that, picks at his food, sleeps when he can. Tries to commit his mother's face to memory. His studies go poorly and people murmur that it's only to be expected of one of them. Lazy, stupid elf-child.

Alim finds himself sitting under windows often, even if it means practicing runes on the floor instead of a desk. He doesn't want to forget what the sun feels like.

Eventually, someone sits next to him.

"Hey." Stubby ears, eyes too close together, stringy brown hair. Shoulders that seem too big for the rest-maybe a year or two older than him, but it's hard to tell with humans. "You've been here a while. Figure out anything interesting?"

Alim says nothing.

"I'm Jowan," says the boy. "Runes aren't my best subject either."

Jowan doesn't have a lot of friends. Jowan has a habit of talking too much too fast when he gets nervous, and he's often nervous. Jowan doesn't force him to answer questions but listens anyway and sits with him at meals, complains about the cooking, goes beyond wearing expressions on his face by channeling them through his hands. He's kinder than he is bright.

When Alim talks to Jowan about his mother a strange expression crosses his face, pulling his brows together and pressing his lips like he's been hurt. It passes quickly into something more neutral. Something silent. After a time Jowan says he wouldn't understand something like that. Not from his experience. But he'll do his best.

They begin working through studies together. The first time Jowan calls him _falon_ his accent is terrible and it doesn't make any grammatical sense, but Alim knows he must have looked the word up. For several seconds, his voice seems frozen in his throat.

"Try _lethallin_ ," says Alim quietly, and it's a word only a few people used in the alienage, but when Jowan smiles he seems to understand.

"Alright, cousin. _Lethallin_ it is then."


	3. Chapter 3

The templar who brought him to the tower is named Hector. Skin bronze like armor he has a thin mustache, an aquiline nose. Glinting teeth. Alim feels washed out beside him. A youngest son of Rivaini merchants, Hector explains (one of few templars who don't mind explaining, doesn't mind talking at all), his family converted to Andrastrianism more for convenience than conviction. He's something of anomaly in that respect, someone who took interest in the Chant enough to leave home, devote his life and legacy to faith. A good portion of his earnings are always sent back to Crestwood. It isn't a bad arrangement, but he can't go home again either.

Other templars monitor the conversations, frequently take Hector aside for discussions of their own. Alim, draped in mustard-colored robes, waits on the floor by his post. He pulls the hood over his ears, hides his face. When Hector returns his mouth is tight, twitching. He lowers himself to sit side by side.

"They're afraid of you," says Hector at length. Alim peeks up. The knight watches his colleagues stationed down the hall instead of him. They are not looking now. "Afraid you might become dangerous, that I won't be able to do my job. Ridiculous."

"I don't want to get you in trouble," says Alim quietly, and Hector reaches under the fabric to tousle his hair.

"No," replies Hector, with a smile that seems incomplete, "you're fine. I'm the one responsible. Not you."

* * *

"See, our lives belong to them," Jowan explains that evening—perched at the edge of Alim's cot in the wake of so many smothered candles, "but they've been put in charge of our deaths, too." He speaks in a whisper, face obscure and empty beneath the dim. Human eyes do not hold the light. Jowan keeps his elbows tucked close to his body while Alim hugs his knees. "Templars can rip your soul out to leave your body behind like a husk. They'll kill you for a thought _they_ had, worrying 'what if's instead of what is. Mages aren't people to them." After a moment, Jowan topples onto his back, facing the ceiling, cutting off the matress' lower half. Eventually, he adds, "Not so unusual, if you think about it."

In the locked and airless dark, Jowan's bogeyman remains a stranger.

* * *

One day, Hector stops acknowledging him.

It's as if he's become mute, or invisible, or maybe dead. When Alim tugs the chainmail at his elbow, Hector only turns away. Saying his name makes no more difference than explaining himself as a student, how he can heal his own body on purpose now and is learning to do it for others. He hasn't broken any rules and his teachers think he's doing alright. He's keeping up better these days. Hector has nothing to say about how Ser Matthew's prank turned out, or if he's beaten Ser Elise in sparring yet. Eventually one of the other knights tells him he can't visit the post anymore. It's not allowed.

* * *

Privacy is difficult to find. On short notice the best he can manage is the basement entrance. It gets used by senior mages and knights of rank and not very often for them. He takes his mother's letters with him, which ended after she explained she was moving to Highever. He stares at them until the words blur and lose meaning, the paper shaking in his hands. The air is cold and damp here but the wall behind him is reassuringly solid. He shouldn't be crying anymore at eleven, but tears roll hot down his cheeks and breath hitches in his throat anyway. He tries not to make any noise.

The door opens. Alim covers his mouth with his arm, but can't bring himself to look up.

There are footsteps. Two come with a metallic click, two are softer. Leather on stone.

They round the corner.

"Oh," he hears, a man's voice beginning to creak with age. Alim doesn't move, breathes through his nose. The letters are scattered around him in a small circle. He doesn't want to imagine how pathetic it looks.

"What are you doing down here?" someone else asks—firm, not quite sharply. "This isn't—"

"Greagoir." The first voice is closer now, chastising. Footsteps come to rest just in front of him. He hears joints creak faintly as a figure kneels. There is a rustle of paper. Alim opens his eyes to find gnarled hands collecting his messages. Their task complete, one reaches out to rest a palm on his shoulder. "What's your name, child?"

He lowers his arm from his mouth to answer, and a sob comes out instead. It doesn't stop. "Alim," he manages eventually between gasps, "sorry. I know I'm… I'm not…"

"It's alright, my boy," he hears in that same even, creaking voice. "Quite alright. Why don't we go up to my office instead, mm? This hall hasn't been mopped properly in some time. There are better places if you need a sit."

Alim nods. It feels like his head is too loose on his neck. An arm slips around his shoulders and he finds himself carefully being helped to his feet.

"Irving," says Greagoir, reproachful. What he can make out of the Knight-Commander consists of hard lines, dusty brown hair, broad shoulders. Thin lips. "We need to sort the new phylacteries."

"And we will," Irving replies. He speaks slowly, deliberately. "First, however, this student needs my attention. The phylacteries will still be here in an hour or two. Surely you understand."

Greagoir only sighs, runs a gloved hand over his face. "Just don't be too long."

* * *

There was an apprentice named Colin. Eighteen years old with an exemplary record and an affinity for spiritual magic. Telekinetics. Colin's family lived on the shores of Lake Calenhad and visited when they could. They'd been proud of him, for reaching his Harrowing. There was no reason to think he would fail.

The fade is full of demons.

Ser Elise is dead. Colin is dead. Hector performed his duty and slew the abomination where it stood. He'd been particularly upset that he could still see the mage in its face.

Alim says nothing, cradles a cup of tea between his hands. He does not drink.

"It isn't your fault," says the First Enchanter. There are lines in his forehead, grooves in his cheeks. Alim wonders how many people he's watched die. "Ser Hector understands now that even a child like you is at risk. We all are. It is easier this way."

* * *

The next time Alim sees Hector, he does not stop.


End file.
